The airport arrival in London went as smoothly as the departure from Tokyo. The aircraft went to the private, northern section of Heathrow, where the transportation was ready: a helicopter for Olga – and female as well as male escorts – to fly her undetected by any doubtful Soviet interception to the safe debriefing house in Surrey. And a surprising limousine for Charlie, with the sealed instruction carried by the security-cleared driver to go directly to Sir Alistair Wilson’s house in Hampshire.
‘It’s Sunday,’ reminded the driver.
Charlie lounged in the back of the vehicle, savouring the unaccustomed luxury. There was even a cocktail cabinet recessed into the seat in front, and Charlie pulled the flap down and saw that the cut glass bottles were full.
‘Help yourself,’ invited the driver. ‘Comes off the Ministry of Works budget.’
‘It’s been a long flight and it’s early,’ refused Charlie. Guessing the reason behind the invitation, he added: ‘Bottles don’t look full to me,’ and the driver smiled appreciately at him through the rear view mirror.
It
A posh car with a driver in a uniform and a cubby-hole full of booze was a definite improvement. And indicative, If he were still in the shit he wouldn’t be getting the welcome-home little hero treatment: well, maybe hero was a bit strong, but the rest was near enough. On a scale of ten, he was shooting at least eight. Charlie glanced again at the drinks cupboard, reconsidering a celebration. Better not: always the chance of the unexpected steel-shod boot, and there had been too many of those in the past few days.
The driver turned off at a Micheldever sign and looped through lanes that hadn’t been built for cars this size and certainly not at this speed, and Charlie hoped the driver didn’t go at the cocktail cabinet too hard before the journey back. He was grateful when they swept into an unmarked drive, past gate pillars surprisingly with no gate and a gatehouse even more surprisingly with no attendant. Charlie’s uncase was just forming when they came to the security, sensibly placed halfway up the drive where it was not visible from the road. Hidden though it was, the cordon was still discreet, the replacement gatehouse looking like its predecessor but less lavish, a box-like guard house designed to look like a retraction forced upon a land-owner whose fortunes were diminishing. It was, in fact, perfect protection, pitched upon an obvious elevation with a soldier’s eye-view of any approach from the highway. The attendant was close cropped and upright and clearly ex-army, and because he was looking hard Charlie managed to identify the concealed antennae which would be linked to the electronic surveillance of the place. Absence of any high wall was understandable: ground sensors and infra-red television cameras were far more effective. The pass check was very thorough, and when they went through Charlie saw there was a second man in the tiny building.
Sir Alistair Wilson’s home was a square-built, weathered-red mansion with a parapet around the roof edge and matching, miniature parapets before all but the ground-floor facing windows. The front of the house was bearded with cut-close creeper, buried in which – because he was looking and recognized them – Charlie picked out three surveillance cameras but guessed there were more.
The house was not, however, the focal point of the approach. It was the rose beds, laid out with the squared and rectangular perfection of the attack formations of Wellington’s red-coated armies and with the same regimentation of colours, beyond the reds to oranges and pinks and whites and yellows and crimsons and peach. Everywhere was dominated by the varying smells when Charlie was let out of the car: the driver called him sir and Charlie decided it was becoming a habit.
A man with another soldier’s haircut opened the door, but the Director was already clumping across the black and white tiled entry hall, hand outstretched in greeting: ‘Charlie! Well done, Charlie! Good to see you back in one piece.’
‘There were times when I didn’t think I would be,’ said Charlie. He rubbed his chin and look down at himself: ‘Afraid I didn’t have time to …’
‘Didn’t expect you to,’ said Wilson, dismissively. He said – an order, not an invitation – “You’ll stay for lunch” and then, ‘Before drinks let’s walk in the garden,’ and set off despite the stiff leg at a pace Charlie had trouble matching. The Director led through a leather-furnished library, out of french windows and directly on to the rear of the house. There were even more rose beds in military formations, and Charlie thought an army to the back and an army to the front. At the rear, ramblers replaced the creeper of the approach and the cameras here were placed again to be scarcely visible: if he hadn’t been looking, he wouldn’t have seen them.
Wilson jerked his hand towards a pink species and said: ‘Displayed at Chelsea this year: got a commended.’
Charlie was unsure what was expected, so he said: ‘Well done.’
‘Do better next year,’ said the Director. ‘Irena’s singing her head off, incidently; can’t stop talking.’
‘Olga won’t,’ said Charlie, positively. ‘There’s still a lot of remorse at the killing – shock, I suppose – but eventually she’s going fully to realize what she’s done by coming across. She’s not a defector, not like they normally are.’
Wilson pulled a branch of something yellow towards him and said: ‘Smell that: isn’t it wonderful? She’s here though, isn’t she? She’ll have to cooperate, finally.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Charlie. He seemed to remember apologizing before but decided a repetition wouldn’t hurt. ‘Sorry for any upsets.’
‘All forgotten,’ said Wilson, breezily. ‘Even got a congratulation at a session of the Intelligence Committee. Our estimation of Soviet technology espionage was about eighty per cent too low: Irena’s giving us names, dates, places … and everything about what her husband did. Names, dates, places, as well. She’s very bitter.’
‘Got a bloody good reason to be.’
‘She’s asked about you, incidently.’
‘Asked what?’
‘Seemed to think you would be her debriefing officer.’
‘What was she told?’
‘Nothing positive: we’ll have to put you in, of course, if we think there’s something she’s holding back, for you.’
‘I don’t think we built up much reliance,’ said Charlie, wanting to avoid the chore.
‘She seems to think you saved her life,’ disclosed the Director.
Reminded of someone’s life which hadn’t been saved, Charlie said: ‘Have Harry Lu’s family arrived?’
‘Yes,’ said Wilson.
‘That’s all going to be OK, isn’t it?’
The Director stopped at the end of a walkway, did a smart about-turn without any apparent difficulty from his stiff leg, and announced: ‘Drinks and lunch.’
Charlie followed, with foreboding, but didn’t press because he knew it had to come as Wilson dictated. The Director poured the Scotch, heavy-handed, and Charlie dutifully expressed admiration at more roses displayed around the room and reminded the ex-soldier that Jun Hayashi was still in place in Haneda. Wilson said the decision had been made to do nothing about the man until Irena’s debriefing had progressed to their uncovering the complete extent of Japan’s witting or unwitting involvement in the hi-tech smuggling chain, when Hayashi might be useful as a bargaining counter with Tokyo.
The meal was beef, thick carved, and there was a bottle of Margaux on the table between them and another opened and breathing on a sideboard, for when the first was drunk.
